


Falling Apart

by Duckyqueen



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Freudian Elements, Multi, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:32:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyqueen/pseuds/Duckyqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You click into the web browser and pull up the parenting site that you've been lurking on since Dave was an infant. The site has gotten you through explosive diarrhea, weaning and potty training. But they don't have anything on five year olds wanting to marry their big brothers"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Apart

You have a clear memory of being five years old.

You're sitting at the kitchen table, coloring and Bro is making you pancakes. You're not sure what the occasion is, can't remember, but you're really happy.

Bro places a plate with pancakes near you and begins to cut them for you.

"Whatcha drawing little man?" He peers at the paper. You're all smiles.

"Drawin' us!" you scribble the yellow over where Bro's hair should be.

"Doin' what?" Bro finish cutting up your pancakes.

"Getting married!" You're so excited, and you smile big at him, reaching over with your free hand to pick up your fork and you shove pancake in your mouth, dribbling syrup down your chin.

Bro's eyes are covered, but his mouth twists slightly and he raises an eyebrow.

"What? Why would we be getting married?" He's truly confused.

"Because..." You trail off, struggling to find a way to explain. "Because we're always gonna be together, right? So that's why people get married. To be together, right?" You suddenly feel ashamed because both of Bro's eyebrows are creeping up towards him hair line. Did you do something wrong? Say something wrong?

"Uh..." Bro kind of trails off. "Yeah... sure. Gimme a sec, gotta check something on the computer little man. You stay here and eat your pancakes." You nod and he leaves and you angrily push the box of crayons on the floor and then eat your dumb pancakes.

  


You hear the box hit the floor, but you'll clean those up later, or make Dave do it. You jiggle your foot as you wait for your computer to warm up.

You click into the web browser and pull up the parenting site that you've been lurking on since Dave was an infant. The site has gotten you through explosive diarrhea, weaning and potty training. But they don't have anything on five year olds wanting to marry their big brothers. You decide to make an account and post on the forum.

  


BBStride asked:

 _So I'm my little bro's legal guardian raised him since he was a baby. He's 5 now and he thinks we're going to get married. What the hell? Did I do something wrong?_

  


You click enter and feel suddenly feel terrible. Have you messed up Dave in some way?

You hit F5 a bunch of times, knowing you shouldn't be leaving Dave alone for so long. Even if Lil Cal is in the kitchen, he never listens to your puppet bro.

On your tenth refresh, you see someone has replied. Your hands shake.

  


Ladybuggie24 replied:

 _It's common for little kids to get attached to their primary caregiver. So common that it even has a name, it's called the Oedipus Complex. but don't worry, your little bro will grow out of it in due time and he'll forget about it. If you want more info on it, I suggest The Magic Years by Selma Fraiberg. Try to introduce him to kids his own age, make sure he makes lots of friends. It's all part of healthy development._

  


You lean back in your chair part relieved, part more confused. Isn't the Oedipus Complex when kids wanna fuck their moms?

Maybe you should buy this book.

  


Dave's been in Kindergarten a week when he asks the weirdest question. Ever.

You're driving through the downtown, and you figure you'll pick up pizza for dinner.

"Why doesn't Lisa have a peepee?" Dave asks from the back seat. You instinctively brake and then collect yourself.

"What?" You peer at him in the rear view mirror. The kid is sitting passively, strapped in his booster seat.

"In the bathroom, I saw that Lisa didn't have a peepee. Did her daddy cut it off?" You're only mildly disturbed as you pull into the parking lot of the pizza place. You twist around to face him.

"First off, if Lisa had a peepee," you inwardly cringe at the childish language you sometimes are forced to use around Dave. "Why would her daddy cut it off. Wouldn't that hurt?"

Dave bites his lip. "Well, she's mean sometimes and does bad things, like doesn't share, so maybe her daddy decided she was bad and cut it off?"

You unbuckle your seatbelt to to better turn to look at Dave. "Little dude," You say gently. "Lisa is a girl. Girls don't have peepees, they have something else. That's what makes girls different." Dave scrunches his eyebrows.

"But if I'm bad, wont you cut mine off?" Ow. You can feel your brain breaking. But he's obviously freaked out. You've noticed recently that he's become kind of obsessed with his junk. He'll be watching cartoons when his hands wander down the front of his pants or you'll check on him at night to find that he's got his teddy bear clenched between his legs. You had run to the parenting forum and gotten a range of answers, mostly saying that it was natural for little kids to jack off. But then a hundred different answers about what to actually do when your little bro or sis shoves their hands down their pants. Some parents say to admonish the child, tell them that it is an icky place to touch, while some parents tell you to let Dave has his fun and not to shame him.

You're just more confused. But you could see why he might be scared that you would cut his junk off if he was bad.

"Little dude, I will not cut your peepee off. I promise." His tiny eyebrows scrunch up behind his totally awesome shades. "I promise," you reach a hand out and ruffle his hair. He seems to calm down and you unbuckle him and take him into the pizza shop.

  


Dave goes to first grade, and true to the words of the other parents on the forum, Dave talks about your apparently imminent marriage to him less and less. Until finally, he never brings it up at all. He still sucks him thumb, but the instances of hands down the pants during TV time dwindle until it just doesn't happen. He stutters pretty dreadfully and is attached to you like glue.

Mornings are the worst where you're trying to get him out the door and get him to Ms. Bellmany's first grade class and he just shrieks at you and cries the entire car ride.

It's not that he doesn't have friends at school. He actually made friends very fast. But according to Ms. Bellmany, Dave spends a good portion of the morning saying that he is afraid that you will forget about him and leave him.

According the forum, this is a little abnormal. Usually kids that are much younger are afraid of being forgotten by parents. Not six and seven year olds.

You aren't sure what to do. His teacher tells him to give it time. The forum says a child therapist. You can't afford a therapist. Not with tuition and bills.

  


Dave has one really good friend. John Egbert. He's pretty goofy looking, which messy black hair and a huge gap where his front teeth should be. Dave's just lost his front bottom teeth and freaked out when they were loose and freaked out even more when they popped out of him mouth during dinner.

You wonder if their's something really wrong with him.

You worry even more that it's your fault.

He's funny around girls. Not that he doesn't have little girl friends, he does, Rose and Jade, but he treats them just like boys.

He doesn't do the normal boy on girl teasing that you remember doing at his age. He tries to involve them in friendly games of wrestling and match box cars. If they don't want to do those things, he begrudgingly plays Barbies with them, but manages to turn their doll games into action packed adventure stories.

He even ropes John into the games of dolls.

Sometimes they play house and Dave gets confused when he gets forced to be the dad or the little brother or the son.

He's confused about gender roles you realize.

Because you were basically his maternal figure when he was little. You fed and bathed him. He never had a mom or a stereotypical female figure in his life.

Maybe you should get a girlfriend.

  


You stare daggers at her, this Barbie doll of a woman. You woke up and she was in Bro's futon. How did she get in the apartment? Does Bro know she's here?

Obviously he does, because you hear the toilet flush and Bro ambles back into the living room, in just his boxers. His shades are already on, and you feel yourself relax. You hope who ever this girl is hasn't seen Bro's eyes.

"Hey little dude, want breakfast?" You nod and you follow him to the kitchen where he pulls out bacon and bread for sandwiches.

He's putting your breakfast in front of you when the girl wanders in, in Bros' shirt and gives him a lazy kiss on the mouth.

You feel something ugly coil inside of you, and you glare at her from behind your shades. She turns and smiles at you.

"Hi buddy, I'm Sheila," you just stare at her and she only smiles wider. "He's cute. Looks just like you! Even the little glasses!" You hope she leaves soon and you never have to see her again. But Bro is smiling and is making a sandwich for her.

Maybe after breakfast she'll leave?

  


She doesn't leave. She spends the day with you and Bro, goes to the Zoo with you and holds Bro's hand. You hold Bro's hand too, squeezing tighter and tighter until Bro looks at you funny and you drop his hand and run ahead. They act like they've known each other a long time and you're suddenly afraid that they have.

  


She works at a bakery and brings you treats. She's nice, really nice, and spends more and more time with the two of you, with Bro.

You hate her.

Bro is yours.

Not hers.

You've had Bro longer and she can't just come into your life and take Bro away.

The apartment is cleaner and Bro starts keeping the smuppets in a different room.

The fridge is not filled with dumb swords and Lil Cal stops following Bro everywhere.

You're afraid of Cal, but you know that he probably hates Sheila too.

You decide to conspire with him to get rid of Her.

  


What you and Cal thought was a master plan ended up not working.

Cal ended up missing a leg and an eye.

And you lost computer privileges for two weeks.

You slam the door to your room and throw anything you can get your hands on across the room. And that's when one of your books hits the window.

The crash of glass is almost deafening.

You freeze.

Bro's footsteps thunder down the hall and the door bursts open.

His normally impassive face is twisted with rage.

He towers over you.

You burst into tears.

"What. The. FUCK is wrong with you?" His cursing only increases your hysterics. "All Sheila has done is be nice you and you act out like this?" God, you hate Sheila.

You hate her.

The words are ripping out of you.

"I HATE you! I HATE Sheila! I hope you both DIE. I HATE YOU AND I HATE HER. I HATE SHEILA," You bellow. "YOU CAN BOTH GO DIE." Bro's face is a little less red and his voice is icy.

"David Strider, you are going to stay in this room until you can calm down." He doesn't say anything about Sheila and he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

You crawl onto your bed and then your words hit you.

You don't hate Bro.

You don't want him to die...

What if...

What if he DOES die?

And it would be all your fault.

You start crying again.

  


You wake up with a start. You hadn't realized you fell asleep. Tears and snot have dried on your face.

The sky is dark.

You get out of bed and hesitantly open the door to your room.

The apartment is quiet.

You...

You killed him. You killed Bro.

You walk shakily into the living room. Then into the kitchen. you almost faint with relief. Bro is sitting at the table, drinking a beer.

Sheila is no where to be seen.

Bro looks up at you.

You're asking before you can comprehend the question.

"Where's Sheila?"

"Gone," though he doesn't offer any elaboration, you know Sheila wont be coming back.

  


You know you should probably feel bad, because you guess Bro did really like Sheila. But you don't care. Bro is all yours again. But you're impassive around him. Not wanting to let on that you're glad she's gone. Because Bro might get mad again.

Bro fixes your window and then fixes Cal. You quietly apologize to Cal for getting him hurt, but Cal says nothing.

As usual.

  


As the weeks pass, you become more attached to Bro, but you try your best to hide it. You've been perfecting your poker face, and you think you're pretty good at it.

Bro's been teaching you how to fight and you preen at the attention he's giving you.

On your tenth birthday, you get your own set of turn tables.

John and you are as close as you've always been, but know no one will ever be as important to you as Bro.

You're stutter has been basically wiped out and you are basically the coolest kid in school.

But you feel weird.

Everyone in middle school has a boyfriend or a girlfriend.

Or they have crushes.

Or they have crushes on you.

John's become very buddy buddy with a girl named Vriska.

And Rose has become close to a pretty girl named Kanaya.

Even Jade's begun hanging out with boys, being cute and flirty.

But not you.

Is there something wrong with you?

You know being gay isn't bad. And even if you were gay or bisexual, no one at school seems to catch your eye.

You just want to go home and hang out with Bro.

  


And then it happens.

Your thirteen and you have a dream.

Bro's big body covers yours, his lips on your neck, you're on your stomach and he's grinding against your ass, his hands running over and down your chest until-

You wake up then, sweaty and still grinding into the mattress. You can't stop your hips. You're still half asleep, half in a dream, still half feeling hands on your chest and a dick against your ass and you hiss, as you press against the mattress for a final time.

You relax into your pillow, body loose from your orgasm and you think how in a couple of seconds, your spunk is gonna get really gross and uncomfortable.

And then you sit up, chest heaving.

You just had a dream.

About Bro

And-

And-

You enjoyed it.

You're strangely calm, as you get and strip your bed, taking the armful of sheets into the bathroom and shoving them into the hamper along with your soiled boxers.

You look at yourself in the mirror, meet your own red eyes.

And then turn to the toilet and vomit.

You sit on the cold floor, your head still hanging in the bowl, listening. God for-fucking-bid that Bro wakes up now. Finds you naked and puking in the bathroom in the middle of the night.

You might die if he does.

You pull yourself up and drink a glass of water from the sink.

Eye your pale face in the mirror.

You just... wont think about it. You'll forget about the dream. And it wont happen again. Everything will be fine.

  


Only it keeps happening, just like in your ironically bad webcomic.

Not every night, but maybe twice a week, you find your dreams filled with Bro.

And it could be anything.

Maybe just kissing him.

Or sometimes he's touching you. Or you're touching him.

But you always wake up, harder than anything and you can't help but think of those dreams when you jerk off. How could you not?

And maybe you've alway known.

Because you clung to him so tightly.

And have refused to let go since your tantrum made him break up with Sheila.

You pushed it out of your mind and you tried to forget.

But you can't forget, not now.

You wanted to marry Bro when you were five and now you want to fuck him. Is it the same feeling?

The same feeling of wanting to be a part of him, or being with him, forever?

You can't ever get close to anyone, because you don't know if you could ever love someone as much as you love Bro.

And you've stopped feeling sick about these dreams, because it makes a weird kind of sense to you.

Bro is the only person you really have.

You guess you're the only person that Bro has.

  


  


Dave is fifteen when he gets sick. Really sick. You have no idea what it was, but you can't afford another visit to the doctor.

It's been a lot of Tylenol and NyQuil and going on two weeks of no school. Dave's temperature keeps rocketing, then plunging. He either lies in bed, not moving, staring blearily at the ceiling, or he shuffles around in a cocoon of blankets.

It's one of his better days, his fever is only one hundred and you offer to share the futon with him.

you're afraid he might go nuts with the lack of company and you make room for him.

It's a little weird at first.

Something happened when Dave turned thirteen. But you started growing apart, barely noticeable at first, but more and more obvious as time passed.

It must have been when John gave him a new pair of shades for his birthday. They were apparently the same shades that Ben Stiller wore in that dumb as shit cop movie and when you found Dave's old glasses in his trashcan, your heart broke.

But only a little.

He perfected his pokerface that year. Has gotten so close to beating you in strife a few times. His raps are good, his beats even better. He started taking ironic, hipstery photos, that are actually pretty good.

Collected dead things.

Killed a crow that one time.

But still, he never brought home a girlfriend or a boyfriend (you don't care either way). You know that kids at school fall all over him.  
And why shouldn't they? He's almost your height, rocks the shades and pulls off skinny jeans without looking like a loser.  
He's attractive.  
He's stone cold irony and coolkid through and through.

And you're proud.

but you miss the little kid who was stuck to you like glue sometimes.

Even the weird shit when he was younger.

You miss the cute kid who wore shades just like yours and who would melt in your arms when you held him.

You realize you're really acting like a parent and berate yourself for it.

Dave is practically an adult now and acting like a teary eyed parent is lame and not at all productive.

  


You look over at him, he's fallen asleep, on his stomach. But he's shifting weird and mumbling. Fever dream? You press your hand to his forehead. He doesn't feel warmer than before. His cheeks are flushed and he continues to shift. He let's out a little noise.

Shit, what if he's really sick?

you turn him over gently and that's when you get it.

Shit you're dumb and this is embarrassing.

He's hard. You can see his erection straining at the front of his sweat pants and your face reddens.

What the fuck. Not like you haven't seen a boner before.

Why is Dave's hard pork sword getting you so flustered?

Dave's hips twitch, seeking friction. He groans again. He mumbles in his sleep, raspy and almost unintelligible. But you hear what he says, and your blood freezes.

"Please... Bro..." Dave rasps. His eyes are still close, still rutting at the air. What if this gets him even more sick?

Should you leave alone or wake him up?

Or what? Were you actually thinking you could jerk him off.

No. Nope. You can't do that.

It's wrong and nope.

Not even going there.

Dave whines a little, twitching, his fringe stuck to his sweaty forehead and his cheeks redredred.

Your mind is just a little blank when you lean over and palm his dick through the sweat pants.

God this is so wrongandsickandwhatamIdoing. WhywhywhyamIdoingthis. Stopitstopit  
But the noises Dave is making as you slip your hand under the elastic is some kind of beautiful and Jesus what the fuck are your thoughts even.

Dave scrunches his eyebrows and bites his lips when rub your thumb over the top and shivers and whines again as you pump him.

You wonder why he's dreaming about you.

His face becomes smooth when he finally comes. His breathing slows and he falls into deeper sleep. You pull off the soiled sweatpants and go into the bathroom, tossing the pants in the hamper and washing your hands.

You avoid your reflection.

You grab a beer and have a nice long think at the kitchen table.

You wont tell Dave.

You wont tell anyone.

It wont happen again.

You wonder for the millionth time in your life if you fucked up Dave.

Everyone has weird sex dreams, but about their brothers? You don't think so.

You wonder if it has to do with how he was as a child. You remember how he wanted to marry you.

You remember how much he hated Sheila. To the point of having Cal jump out at her, with a knife in his gloved hand.

To the point of saying he hated you and Sheila and hoped you both would die.

You've never looked at Dave's behavior as a big picture before now.

But you look at Dave's sleeping form.

And you remember how attached he was to you when he was little. How he hated to be apart from you.

And Sheila.

You broke up with her because of him.

She was also upset about Cal. And she was upset at the fact that Dave hated her when all she did was be nice to him.

She was upset because even though she knew Dave was your responsibility, she was still upset that it was always about Dave.

But Dave was all you had had since forever.  
And he was all you had since the breakup .

Sure there was sex at the clubs you perform at, but you never bother for anything serious.

You have Dave.

But...

No.

You finishe your beer and push away the thoughts.

You go do work.

  


You slump back into school with a forged doctor's note, saying that you are excused from gym until you are at full strength.

You had been half awake that night.

Half awake from a dream where Bro was about to fuck you and then maybe you fell into another dream where Bro was jerking you off.

But you woke up in the morning in brand new sweats and Bro was holed up in his makeshift office.

You knew what he had done.

You knew he probably hated himself. So you didn't bring it up.

But you want Bro again. Want to hold him and tell him not to worry.

Not to feel bad.

You want to tell him that you love him and need him a lot more than you let on.

But you don't know how to tell him that.

John and Jade and even Rose clamor around you, hugging, asking if you're alright.

You're fine.

Never

been

better.

  


You begin edging closer to Bro.  
Not physically, but you try and get him to spend more time with you.  
You strife more. More rap battles.  
You have wars where you each try to drown out each other's music.  
It's fun.  
But it's not exactly what you want.  
You want to curl up under his arm.  
You want to lie with your head in his lap.  
You want to feel the pulse in his neck under your lips.

It's on John's sixteenth birthday that he loses his virginity to Vriska. They had been dating since the eight grade.  
They break up a week after the fact. Or more like Vriska brutally dumps him in the middle of biology, making him run out of the lab, trying to hide the fact that he was crying.  
You stoically pat John's back as he cries even more about it, at a sleep over that night, saying “What did I do wrong?” He looks up at you, his face all red, eyes all wet and face all smeary.  
You lean down and kiss him.  
He lets you and kisses you back.  
All you do is kiss. But you both need it and you both fall asleep in John's bed. He whimpers a little against your wet shirt and you stroke his hair.  
You think about how you imagined that you were kissing Bro the whole time.  
And there's nothing awkward in the morning.  
You both never talk about it.

You and Bro are sitting a good distance away from each other on the couch, playing some stupid, ironic game.  
You can't help but notice how Bro licks his lips sometimes.  
Or the way his shirt rides up, just a fraction, showing off smooth, freckled flesh.  
Or how each flick of his thumbs on the controller sends his muscles moving up his arms.  
You notice how his eyes, you can see them through the side of his glasses, jump to you, as you continue to fail at the game, distracted by him.  
He focuses back on the screen.  
And your heart flutters and twists and you can't stop the words.  
“Bro?” he sort of grunts at you, focused too hard on the game for it to be ironic. “I wasn't asleep. That night.” He stops the game. He doesn't look at you. “Bro-” You reach out to him. He stands up, the controller clatters to the floor.  
“I'm sorry, Dave,” He's moving towards the phone. “I'm a terrible guardian. I-” The phone is in his hand.  
No.  
You will not  
Lose him.  
Not like this.  
Not to CPS or him to prison or you to foster care.  
No.  
Not like  
This.  
“No, Bro-!” He stops. You wish you could see his eyes. “Bro, I don't.” You falter. “I want you, Bro.” You can see him swallow.  
He puts the phone back in its cradle.  
He walks out of the apartment, the door clicking gently shut behind him and your strain to hear his footsteps.

You fall asleep on the futon, waiting for him.  
But when you wake up, he's still not back.  
You're worried.  
You pull on your shoes and grab your phone and wallet and keys.  
He could just be on the roof.  
Or he could be dead  
in a gutter  
or  
under a bridge  
or-  
You decide to check the roof first.

And he's there.  
Under an air conditioning unit and he doesn't look up at you when you approach.  
You sink down next to him, a good foot away from him.  
You don't touch him. Or say anything.  
He starts laughing, suddenly.  
You've never heard him laugh before.  
Not really.  
But he's full on laughing now.  
It's an ugly laugh, deep and almost like the barks of a mechanical dog.  
You eye him, warily, from behind your shades.  
“When you were five,” he says when he finally stops laughing. “You said we were gonna get married. I got kind of scared. I was twenty fucking two years old and I had this five year old kid and I had no fucking clue if I was doing anything right. And I had CPS checking in on me every fucking month and I had no fucking high school diploma. And my five year old thought we were gonna get married. I was scared,” he was laughing again. “I was scared I had messed you up and I went on this fucking parenting forum and actually asked if I had done something wrong. But apparently it's normal. Imagine that. Every fucking Billy and Susie in the fucking world think they're gonna marry mommy or daddy.” You don't say anything. You want him to keep talking. “And then you couldn't keep your hands out of your pants. And you didn't understand what was a boy and what was a girl. You couldn't understand why they had to be two separate things. And I kept thinking I was messing you up, right? I kept thinking that it was all my fault. But everyone kept telling me it was normal.” His shoulders are shaking, but he's not really laughing anymore. “I was eighteen when I found you. I was just fucking eighteen and my foster family had gotten rid of me and I needed something perfect and beautiful in my life. Because maybe if I kept that perfect thing safe, I could somehow be a better person. Maybe I could do something good and maybe everything else I had done wouldn't matter. Maybe everything that had ever happened to me would vanish. If I could do one thing right-” He breaks off and it's quiet again. Moments pass. “But I fucked you up, didn't I?”  
You edge closer to him.  
“Maybe,” you say and you lean against him. He doesn't react at all to your touch, to your weight. “But ever since I was little, I couldn't see my future without you. Even with the other people at school, with their crushes and fucking boyfriends and fucking girlfriends...” You try to push yourself into him. “I never wanted it. Only you, Bro.” You've been drowning him in for as long a you can remember, because at the end of every tunnel you walked through, Bro was always at the end.  
And it's the cheesiest fucking thing you've ever thought, but you can't seem to care. “I need you, Bro. I need you like a fish needs water and Ben Stiller needs fucking Owen Wilson and I need you in all the ways, Bro.” You pull off your shades and reach up to cup his cheek. It's wet and red and ruddy and you gently pull of his shades, too. “Even if you did fuck me up, you raised me okay, I think. I'm not angry. I'm not evil. I do okay in school and I don't think I have any bad memories of you. All my memories of you are nice and good and perfect. Because they're of you.” You let yourself trail off, because, wow, there's suddenly the most uncool lump at the back of your throat and your eyes sting. “Bro.” He turns his face towards you and you lean up and kiss him, soft and gentle.  
He cups your face and kisses you back.

Your bump foreheads and you sigh against him.  
It's something real, you think. You and him. Him and you.  
It's something that could explode at any moment, and you feel as if you are both rushing towards something that you can't quite name, that you can't quite identify.  
You could both shatter at any moment, but even if your pieces never become a whole again, this right now?  
It's something.  
Isn't it?  
You've both found something you can drown in, and it's ugly and perfect.  
And maybe it is real.  
Yes.  
Yes it is most definitely real.


End file.
